


Even Knowing

by aftertherain



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Mob, M/M, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:36:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aftertherain/pseuds/aftertherain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mob AU, Undercover AU, and a 5+1 things story. </p><p>Five times Jonathan was surprised by Patrick Kane, and one time he wasn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even Knowing

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to the lovely snarkyducky for reading this over.

1.

They tug the heavy material off Jonathan’s head without much care, the whiplash knocking the back of his neck against the drainage pipes and triggering a fresh wave of pain in the process. It’s suddenly too bright, too loud. He blinks, squinting to see through the sticky blood still dripping sluggishly off his brows into his eyes. A face he didn’t expect to see tonight steps into his blurry field of vision. 

This is the first time Jonathan has seen Patrick Kane in six years.

“Recognize this guy?” 

The person standing behind him grabs him by the hair, forcing him to stare straight up into the light source. Whoever is asking these questions needs to let go if he expects an intelligible answer. Jonathan jerks out of the hold, the pain going white hot for a minute. That’s never a good sign.

The harsh panting sounds require little acting on his part.

He stalls, his mind running on adrenaline and fumes, wondering whether denial would be his best option when Kane answers, “Yeah. I know him.” 

Silence reigns in the room for a minute, people standing in the shadows shifting nervously. There are more Blackhawks gathered tonight than he expected.

None of the bigwigs from the organization is here, but he recognizes a few faces from doing his homework. Shaw is the one standing guard near the door, arms crossed over his chest, just waiting for someone to give him an excuse to punch their lights out. Sharp is the guy on his cellphone, sounding deferential as he ends the call before slipping the phone inside his suit jacket and coming forward to whisper in Kane’s ear. That these players are all in the wine cellar with him tells Jonathan that the Hawks are on heightened security, so the rumors of a major organization ‘cleaning’ going down tonight have some truth to them.

Kane is shaking his head, shrugging off Sharp’s attempt to pull him back. He never takes his eyes off Jonathan.

 _“Peeks.”_ Something about the way Sharp says the nickname, both admonishing and apologetic in tone, does not bode well for Jonathan. “Why do you have to be difficult?”

 _“Sharpy,”_ Kane answers in the same tone. “Jonny's my boy. He's cool.”

The gruff voice behind him asks, “Did you know this guy would show up tonight?” 

“I work here, assholes.” The first sentence he gets out earns him an elbow to the head, not particularly devastating, but enough to send him reeling. His ears start buzzing, all their voices melting into one another, hollowing out into a vacuum before collapsing inside his head. He feels very, very odd.

“Bollig, don’t give my buddy another concussion. Jonny doesn’t have brain cells to spare—”

“—usually works weeknights—” someone in the background is saying. Jonathan thinks that’s the manager who hired him, trying to squeeze past Shaw into the room. “—bartending at the place uptown before this, but Duncs can vouch for him.”

Everyone seems to be talking, but he can’t follow the silvery threads of their conversation.

“—sorry, man. No hard feelings, right?” 

The big guy who is apparently Bollig starts untying his wrists and ankles from the chair, and Jonathan gets the uncomfortable impression that he’s lost a significant stretch of time. His arms have gone numb. There are far fewer people in the room than he remembered, just Bollig, Shaw, Sharp and Kane. Despite his apology, Bollig is grinning at him in the clearly threatening way that says he’s just waiting for Jonathan to take one wrong step. “Next time don’t sneak around.”

“Well,” Sharp starts then stops. “To be fair, if you were doing your job you shouldn't have missed an ass like that trying to sneak into our den of iniquity.” 

Kane snorts, while Bollig smiles extra wide at Sharp to show all his teeth. The two Patricks stare at each other, and there’s an entire unspoken conversation going on that excludes everyone else. Shaw ignores them, like it’s a normal occurrence, and helps Jonathan stand on weak legs.

Kane breaks eye contact first, looking bored. He says to Jonathan, “You’re coming with me,” and slips in under his arm to take some of his weight and help steady him.

“Peeks... speaking as your friend, I’m warning you—this is asking for trouble.”

“We’re going to have a lot more trouble on our hands if I let you deal with him,” Kane replies coolly. He waves off the rest of what Sharp has to say. 

After Jonathan has been half-dragged, half-carried to the car, when it’s just the two of them listening to the engine start, Patrick finally lets his emotions run free. He reaches across the gear stick to wipe the clammy sweat off Jonathan’s forehead with the cuffs of his sleeves, cursing all the while: “what the fuck,” “fucking Sharpshooter,” and “seriously, what the fuck, Jonny?” 

And right before Jonathan passes out, he hears Patrick ask in a whisper, “Oh my god, what am I going to do with you?”

 

* * *

2.

The first time Jonathan watches Patrick stitch up one of their guys in the stockroom, he gets more hands-on training than he ever wanted. The boy thrashing on the floor is in obvious pain, delirious from blood loss but still loud in the terrible way that even the booming music from the nightclub upstairs can’t quite drown out. 

There was a reason they called Kaner “the Doctor.” His hands in the blood-slick surgical gloves are unfailingly steady, even as he orders Jonathan to hand him the scalpel, the sutures, a stack of gauze pads. Jonathan doesn’t know what he expected, but it certainly isn’t this—the quiet efficiency, flashes of Patrick’s pale forearms moving beneath his rolled up shirt sleeves, blood soaking the fabric despite his best efforts.

Patrick gives the boy another shot of morphine before putting his briefcase away, then turns and asks Bollig, waiting by the door, to pull a car around to the back entrance.

“You’re taking him to the hospital?” Jonathan can’t keep the disbelief out of his voice.

“Why not? We’re a law-abiding establishment that pays taxes and donates to charity every year,” Patrick deadpans. “Stop glaring at me, all I’ve bought us is a little time and I can’t fix the serious stuff.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Go fetch Sharpy, would you? He needs to come with.”

Jonathan doesn’t end up taking the trip with them. He scrubs his hands with soap and hot water until his fingertips ache, washing all the way up to his elbows, then heads back upstairs to help out at the bar. The night only gets busier from that point on.

He hears from Sharpy afterwards that the kid didn’t make it.

“Keep an eye on Kaner when he comes back,” says Sharpy as he’s disappearing into the restroom. “I need to go cry on the phone to my wife.”

Patrick doesn’t seem any different when he returns in the hushed, blue-toned hours before dawn. He goes about his business as usual even if his eyes seem a little tired, an air of detached sadness clinging to him as he exchanges brief words with a few of the guys.

Less than a week later, Jonathan watches Patrick lean idly out the passenger side window as they stop at a red light in front of the cluster of fast food restaurants near the South Side. He is chewing unattractively on the straw of his milkshake, his douchey designer shades slipping down his nose. They’re passing through an area they were strictly forbidden to set foot in, and Sharpy would have a fit if he finds out this is what Kaner meant by getting dinner.

The calm could never last. Jonathan only sees the gun after Patrick had pulled the trigger, the crack distinctive and deafening despite the silencer due to how close he’s sitting. Someone collapses in a spray of red; it takes seconds before the people standing nearby catch on to what’s happening and start screaming, the circle opening up, others backing away. From the driver’s side, Jonathan watches the disturbance ripple through the crowd.

The light turns green. Jonathan puts his foot on the gas and gets them the hell out of there. 

One week ago, someone’s stray bullet had grazed their dead kid in almost the exact same spot, that vulnerable triangle near the neck. Kaner took only one shot to return the favor, his aim as steady as his hands. 

The same hands that had not too long ago tried to keep the life from spilling out of a body, and damn near pulled off a miracle. 

They don’t talk in the car, afterwards.

 

* * *

3.

“You were in Chicago this whole time?”

“Here and there, yeah,” says Patrick, getting up to go putter about in his kitchen, clearly avoiding the topic. The TV is droning on at a low volume in the background, news followed by local weather updates scrolling across the screen. Their dinner is in the oven—the timer on Jonathan’s phone showing that there’s eight more minutes to go. He hears the faucet turn on, the sound of glasses clinking together, a spoon falling into the sink.

Jonathan follows the sounds to the kitchen. He watches from his spot, leaning against the refrigerator, for another minute before breaking the silence.

“So. Aren’t you going to ask what I’m doing here?”

“Why? Did you do something incredibly dumb like join a mob by mistake?” Patrick’s always had a way with words. He could make them cut deep, if he was in the mood.

“C’mon, Kaner.”

Patrick hmms and turns off the tap, a slow trickle of water continuing to drip. He ignores Jonathan.

“What I don’t understand is why you’re still in Chicago.” _And why you’ve kept me alive so far, when I could easily ruin things for you,_ Jonathan thinks but doesn’t say.

All these years, he’d never believed the rumors that Patrick Kane was dead. But if he had dared imagine meeting Kaner again, it would have been some place on the other side of the world far away from their training, unburdened by shared history and the weight of all the memories good and bad in the city where they came of age.

“Jonny. Just drop it.”

He never knew when to shut his mouth, with people that mattered to him. For once, he says “okay” and backs off.

Patrick has poured two mugs of something hot, which he brings with him back to the couch. He slides one across the coffee table towards Jonathan.

Jonathan hesitates for only a split second, eyeing the drink placed before him. But Kaner, being Kaner, never misses the finer details of human interaction—a nervous tic, a barely-there tell—even when he might not look like he’s paying attention. Jonathan wasn’t consciously thinking about the past month, the underhanded dirty plays that guys from both sides have been guilty of in their escalating turf war, or worse things he now knows Patrick is capable of. Nor was he seriously concerned. He simply … paused.

Patrick leans back into the saggy couch cushions, looking amused instead of offended. When Jonathan meets his gaze, one corner of Patrick’s lips twitches up involuntarily. The mischievous twinkle turning those blue eyes lighter says that making Jonathan squirm and have to be paranoid about everything from now on really turns his crank. The lines of his smile deepen.

The timer on Jonathan’s phone goes off, providing a perfect excuse for him to get up and rescue the roast chicken from the oven.

Patrick sighs in his typical aggrieved fashion, reaching forward to pour the contents of that mug into his own. Jonathan snatches it away and takes a quick sip on his way to the kitchen. It tastes horrible, like quality coffee that stumbled into a bathtub moonshine operation and forgot to get back up, happily soaking in booze instead.

“What the hell is this?” He starts coughing mockingly at first, which makes him cough for real, the burn shooting straight up to his nostrils. The aftertaste is worse, if possible.

“It’s a drink for the sophisticated palate. Too bad you don’t know anything about that.”

He can cough and flip Patrick off at the same time.

Patrick slaps him on the back, in sympathy.

Dinner and two drinks later, the world has turned pleasantly fuzzy, drenched in a warm amber glow. The dishes, forks and knives are sitting in the sink. He is reluctant to get up. Jonathan hands over the remote, and Patrick channel-surfs for a while. There is a Cubs game on, so Patrick props his feet up on the table as he sinks deeper into the cushions, wiggling his sock-clad toes before settling with a sigh. He elbows Jonathan in the side until he follows suit. What a terribly domestic moment, if they were people other than themselves. 

“Tell me something real,” says Jonathan.

They watch the Cubs fumble around on screen, giving up the early lead. The baserunning is dismal and the stands have mostly emptied by the eighth inning. He doesn’t think Patrick will answer him, after a while. But in the end he does.

“I’ve got my reasons, for staying. There’s a debt I have to repay.”

Jonathan doesn’t need to ask for clarification. He has pieced together by now Patrick’s history with Savard. He thinks Patrick might have once been one of the pawns caught in the crossfire, an unfortunate casualty. Or perhaps, his cover was blown and they purposely left him to bleed out in an alley. If there’s a reason he is unfailingly loyal to the Blackhawks, to Savard, it’s because he owes his life to that man.

“Fair enough. You think the debt’s almost paid off?”

“We’ll see,” says Patrick.

“I looked for you, you know. After you disappeared.”

“Yeah, Jonny—I know. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” And Patrick doesn’t sound angry at Jonathan for pushing. If anything, every word he says is quietly fond. “I was never really gone.”

 

* * *

4.

Patrick kisses him very briefly once the front door is locked behind them, as if casual affection is something they’ve always done. Jonathan's nose is cold from their walk home. He cups his gloved hands in front of his face, and huffs to warm his skin. He doesn't really know what he's doing here.

Patrick watches him for a while, then hangs up their wool coats and turns to tug him through the second set of doors, tossing his keys with perfect aim to land inside the candy bowl as they pass. He starts ragging on Jonathan about his ugly toque while Jonathan makes fun of him for wearing what are essentially mittens, and they don't stop bitching the entire time as they stumble down the hallway into the bedroom. But once he gets there, Patrick falls silent, just watching.

His eyes are clear, completely sober.

Jonathan takes the time to observe him in turn. In his shirtsleeves, Patrick's broader than he looks under the ill-fitting suit jackets he likes to wear, which make it so easy to underestimate him. The muscles across his shoulders and down his back are deceptively strong, while his hands—his beautiful hands—stay curled loosely at his sides, strangely hesitant.

“Hey.”

Jonathan reaches out to trace the bluish veins on the back of Patrick’s hand. That hand turns up, holds his fingers tightly for a minute before trailing up to his wrist, circling the bone, then exploring the length of Jonathan’s forearm. Patrick cups the scarred skin at his elbow, taps a secret code into the thin skin of the inner bend. _Tap. Tap-tap._

“What are you waiting for?” Jonathan asks.

His voice comes out a lot raspier than he intended, their long history and unbroached secrets escaping too easily in the wintry darkness between them, like something blooming unobserved in the night time.

He swallows, the live creature that is his heart not slowing its frantic pace one bit. “Well?” He tries again. Patrick lifts his eyes, from the opened vee of Jonathan’s slacks, to the strip of bare skin below the shirt, up to meander unhurried along the line of Jonathan’s neck. Jonathan feels that intense regard all the way up to his lips, like a physical touch. He sucks in another unsteady breath. 

“C’mon Kaner, any day now.”

“Shh. Be quiet and learn from the best.” Patrick smiles then, a rare ease to his whole demeanor, like he believes himself a maestro of seduction when he’s just a ridiculous human being who seems strangely content to stand there and stare at Jonathan.

“Oh, sure.” Jonathan huffs, driven by an impatience he cannot explain that heats up under his skin, burning the nervousness out of him. He’s aware these days of a clock running down, their limited time together trickling away, and he is desperate to hang on to all of it. To sink into Patrick and never let go. He undoes his belt, the metal buckle clinking against the leather as he tosses it to the side. It hits a lamp, the shadows cast by the bare light against their features wobbling in place before settling. “So you can teach me to sit back and let someone else do all the work.”

“Don’t sass me. I'll teach you a lesson all right,” Patrick responds, stepping into his space and taking over the job of undressing Jonathan. He flicks open the last buttons of Jonathan’s shirt, tugging it off his arms completely, followed quickly by his slacks, before hip-checking Jonathan into sitting down on a corner of the bed.

Patrick grabs his hair, his fingers strong, almost on the verge of inflicting pain. But his lips, when he bends down to kiss Jonathan, are soft.

 

* * *

5.

Seabrook likes to meet him at the pizzeria that serves good food but has the worst service in town. The updates they exchange are usually short and sweet: Jonathan thinks the merchandise is going to change hands sometime this week, and the two crews are headed to marriage counseling, if not divorce court. Seabs nods, says that their boys will be ready for whatever happens. As their shoulders brush, heading out in different directions, Seabs leans in and adds, “I need you to get your head back in the game. Don’t lose yourself now, Jonny.”

He’s on his way home after the long overdue check-in when he gets jumped, nowhere near the bar or the contested territories. He thought for sure he wasn’t being followed.

They shove him facedown onto the pavement, punch him a few times for good measure. The entire confrontation is over in a minute. They don’t leave a visible mark. He recognizes the car peeling out of the street.

He gets the Sharks’ message, loud and clear: they don’t care who vouches for him, they’re not going to trust an outsider. And they’re definitely on to him.

Shaw calls him just as he’s sitting down in his kitchen with a pack of frozen peas to ice his shoulder.

“Hey, man ... I know you're not scheduled to work tonight, but we have a small situation here. I’d feel a lot better with an extra pair of hands on deck.”

“I’ll be right there.” He hangs up and tosses the bag back into the freezer.

He hurries and gets there in fifteen minutes. At first glance, it looks like one of those occasional slow nights at the bar, not at all the chaos he had imagined. A few of their regulars are just getting settled, starting in on their first drinks, half paying attention to SportsCenter highlights replaying on the flatscreen TV. From the outside, he might not have suspected anything important was happening. 

There are guys he doesn’t recognize working the bar, and good alcohol that he didn’t have to lug up from the stockroom. All the girls who might have worked tonight have been sent home. He catches a glimpse of the card games going on in the cigar smoke-filled VIP lounge, where money matters less than whether a détente can be reached. As Jonathan is handing off a tray of drinks, he spots Savard deep in conversation at one of the tables before Sharpy nudges the door closed again. If the talks have deteriorated to the point where Savard’s presence is required to maintain civility, it’s not what he would describe as a ‘small situation.’

An hour goes by without incident, and the drinks keep flowing. He looks up as Patrick and another man emerge from the room and make their way over to the pool tables. Judging from his height and build, the other guy is unmistakably Thornton from the Sharks. They are quickly followed by two, then four more people from both crews, as if neither side wants to risk leaving them alone.

The group ignores the distraction of the pool tables to sit down in the corner farthest from crowds and foot traffic. On his next trip back from delivering drinks to the lounge, Jonathan stops to see if they need anything. Shaw not so subtly shakes his head, telling Jonathan to make himself scarce. He hears Patrick saying, “You wanted to talk, so let's talk.” 

Jonathan catches Thornton looking at him while Patrick studiously ignores his presence. Thornton ends up buying a round of drinks for all of them: whisky on the rocks for the veterans who’ve seen too many territory scuffles in their time, the best beer on tap for a few of the young guys, and a fruity drink for the Doctor—because Thornton and Patrick have some kind of long-standing animosity and Thornton is exactly the type of asshole to take a dig at him this way.

Patrick isn’t the type to be bothered by slights, though, so he nods at Jonathan and says, “Strawberry, thanks.”

It elicits approving backslaps from a few who might’ve mistaken Patrick’s easy acquiescence for an ability to take a joke. What they don’t realize is that Patrick’s humoring them because he honestly doesn’t care and, also, seems strangely intent on sending Jonathan away. 

Jonathan checks with Sharp to see if he needs anything on his end, then works the bar through multiple interruptions before he manages to bring the group their drinks. Another hour into the meeting, the restaurant has closed for business while the bar remains open, and still the conclusion seems uncertain. One guy gets up periodically to report back to the card tables. The collar of his shirt is damp with nervous sweat; Jonathan can sympathize.

The negotiations continue late into the night. He helps Bollig steer away a few of the hapless regulars who wander in the wrong direction over the course of the evening, people who are unaware of the minefield they almost set foot in. There is more than one enforcer standing around with loaded weapons hidden somewhere on their bodies. 

When Jonathan returns with another round of drinks after getting waylaid, a truce appears to have been reached. One of the senior advisors raises his glass: “We’re putting the past behind us, right, boys?”

The response is grudging, but there.

Jonathan clears the empties from their table and unloads fresh drinks for the guys, who all raise their full glasses to the tentative peace agreement. Patrick unfolds from his sprawl, and it strikes Jonathan then that Patrick has barely touched his first drink. 

“Drink up, eh boys.” 

He’s apparently not the only one to have noticed.

Patrick keeps playing with his daiquiri, staring thoughtfully into the distance. He slides the glass on the smooth surface of the table between his hands, quick shuffling movements, one of his quirks when he’s buying time. Unless he secretly wanted a beer like the other guys, there’s nothing wrong with the drink—Jonathan mixed it himself.

Jonathan freezes as he retraces his footsteps, the first and second trips from the bar to the pool tables. Despite the multiple detours and interruptions, he can find nothing amiss. The Sharks wouldn’t fucking dare pull one of their dirty tricks right here in Blackhawks territory—no one could be that crazy. 

Except, the Sharks know who he is. If something were to happen to Patrick tonight, that would be a terrible setback to their negotiations and a real tragedy—but _Special Agent Toews_ had handed him that drink.

Thornton asks, "Problem?" 

His voice is even, sounding concerned and diplomatic. Like he might be anxious about Kaner accepting the Sharks’ show of good will after the peacemaking efforts from both sides. He’s waiting for the snub. Maybe they all are. There’s close to a hundred guys in this building, all armed to the teeth. All it takes is a spark to ignite the tinder.

"No. No problem at all." Kaner is looking straight at Jonathan as he says this. He must understand what’s happening.

Jonathan thinks, _please don’t._

“Cheers, man,” Kaner says before he takes a long sip of his strawberry daiquiri, calm as you please.

Jonathan’s mind goes static white with fear before everything swings back to life in double time. He’s moving, trying to grab hold of Kaner, but someone intercepts him and crushes him to the ground before he reaches the table. Some hot-head on their side decides to open fire first. The doors to the VIP lounge are quickly sealed shut, the safety of the kingpins inside a top priority. There is a lot of angry yelling and finger-pointing but no further shots fired. Guys on both sides are tangled up, holding each other back in a last ditch effort to prevent the evening from escalating into all-out war. 

Just when it looks like things might calm down, the windows shatter as a tear gas canister lands near the bar and a unit from the organized crime task force sweeps in the door with full protective gear and rifles drawn, shouting at everyone to drop to the floor. Everything erupts at once.

 

* * *

 

+1.

Security is heaviest on the top floor, as he expected. Jonathan signs in at the front desk, idly checking the list of visitors to this floor before him while half listening to the background chatter. One of the nurses on duty stares discerningly at his face like she knows him. He assumes she’s disapproving of the one battered side that has just this morning started to show bruising in an interesting shade of plum. _That’s brutal,_ he thinks, as he’s being waved through to the first hallway. Way to kick a guy when he’s down.

Special Agent Saad is waiting at the door and straightens when Jonathan approaches. They shake hands. Brandon doesn’t ask to see his badge. Jonathan supposes that by noon, every rookie in the unit will know who he is (for better or worse) and where he has been for the past year. 

Not everyone knows the guy beyond the door, though. To them, Kaner is just the Doctor, a slippery catch and a crucial cog in the Blackhawks operations who happens to be a pain in the ass. They’d be happy to pump him for information. Nobody out of the younger crop of special agents knows that Kaner was once one of the idealists among them, and anyone who actually remembers this prefers the information buried anyway.

He hands Brandon a coffee. Brandon nods his thanks, wraps his fingers around the paper cup and doesn’t stare at the sling Jonathan’s arm is in.

He’s not sure how other people do this. Make the adjustment. Act like he’s fully back in his skin. It’s hard to even breathe, when there is still a crushing weight on his chest.

Brandon scans his card and keys in his authorization code to unlock the door, then lets Jonathan walk in before him.

Jonathan approaches the bed slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. The vital stats monitor is blipping in the background. He notices the difference right away.

He pulls the blinds all the way open and tugs down the oxygen mask to confirm that there is a guy he’s never before seen in his life sleeping soundly under the hospital covers, handcuffed to the bed rails and snoring loudly. The intravenous drip is a sedative pack instead of saline. 

This guy looks nothing like Kaner. He’s got awful hair too, but he’s not even blond.

Jonathan turns around and raises an eyebrow at Brandon. His bruised face hurts that way, but it’s his best “are you fucking kidding me?” look.

Brandon is already on his cell phone, calling in to report to the Special Agent in Charge. 

“Leddy here worked the graveyard shift earlier,” Brandon points and says while his call is being patched through. “He’s supposed to be home sleeping right now.” 

SAC Quenneville is going to lose his shit.

While Brandon begins with his apologies for calling so early, Jonathan flips through the legal pad by the bed, finds it completely blank. He checks behind the alarm clock and under the empty food tray, searching for any message left for him. An answer, some kind of a sign. This is the weakest part of him that he cannot quash—he knows this. But if he hasn’t been able to get over it after all these years, there is no reason he should start now. 

Brandon ends his phone call. He starts looking for a button to press to get a nurse’s help in waking their sleeping beauty.

Jonathan stares at the rookie still asleep in bed, the IV line inserted in the back of one hand, and he has a vivid recollection of waking up to Patrick, his head supported on one propped hand, eyes half closed and watching Jonathan back. The way the morning light had come in through the bedroom blinds, showing the orange in the scruff along his jaw and drowning in liberal gold the tragedy that was his hair, long past due for a haircut. The unruly curls almost reached his shoulders when he shrugged. Jonathan remembers tracing the blue veins on the back of Patrick’s hand, a continuing dialog from their night before. Pat’s hand had stayed light and warm on Jonathan’s arm the entire time. 

_Tap. Tap-tap._

If Jonathan had the words that morning, there were things he would have liked to say. 

His thoughts are interrupted by a crashing noise from the adjoining bathroom, immediately followed by Brandon’s swearing. Jonathan takes one look at the scene inside and decides to stay out of the mess: Brandon had been diligently checking possible escape routes when what must be two meals’ worth of hospital jello came tumbling down in a glass bowl, splattering blue gunk all over his new suit and shattering into pieces on the linoleum. 

That’s his message right there. 

Jonathan could have saved Brandon all that trouble by telling him that Patrick probably walked out the front door, with some help. But other than a dent in Brandon’s dignity, no harm done.

“Hey,” says Jonathan. “I’m heading down to check with hospital security, see if the surveillance cameras caught anything. You need a towel?”

Brandon looks wretchedly up at him, blue goo still dripping off his hair. He’s too polite to say that he knows Jonathan’s just dying not to laugh. 

“Two, please.”

“Sure, no problem.” It’s great to have rookies underfoot.

In the elevator going down, Jonathan shakes his head in disbelief and finally allows a chuckle to escape. He knows he’s laughing but the number illuminated on the display turns blurry. He stares up at the ceiling, draws in a few quick breaths, and chokes the feelings down. The whole thing is deeply embarrassing, even if nobody will ever know. He doesn’t have words for what the hell he’s feeling.

One of the first things Kaner had teased him about, in the very beginning: _That’s a mixed bag of emotions you’re handling there, Special Agent Toews. Careful, you might break something._

He’s waited all this time—what’s another year or two? He hears that opening salvo, _tap. Tap-tap,_ like his heart beating too close to the surface.


End file.
